Seeking Dawn
by hungary4prussia
Summary: When Celt runs across Britannia in battle, the two fued as the bitterest enemies. Time has the power, and through that time the two grow to see they are not so different. Follow their story from the beginning, from pain and loss, to pride and fear, to betrayle and loathing, learn how this family stayed together - even while falling apart. (A prequel to Beyond the Horizon)
1. Cry of the Celts

**1. Cry of the Celts**

The wind cut through the thick furs and sent a chill through the tall, dark haired man. It was always harsh in the highlands during winter, even if these were the last few weeks of the daft season. His horse pawed the Earth and his grey eyes shifted over the fields. Something was coming. He wasn't sure what, but the rumors were spreading at a fast rate that men from the East were flooding to the shores in the South and West, even East. He didn't like it. The rumor also carried the promise of a resilient young warrior who seemed indestructible to all who tried to cut him down, failed.

"Celt, we need ta be moving," he heard a gruff voice say from behind him. He turned and saw a man with flaming red hair, and a beard. His tiny eyes were like daggers.

"Of course Hamish," he turned his mount and trotted down the hill to meet him.

"What is it?" The man nodded over the bluff where the other had been standing.

"Somethin' is coming, and I dun't like it," his own eyes narrowing.

"The rumors are comin' at a faster n' faster rate. Seems ta me that young devil who is leadin' the army, is gainin' ground ta here. What would our Lord have us do?"

"We'll fight them, and we'll defeat them. I won't stop until I have their leader's head on a platter to send it back across the seas. Do not be afraid, Hamish, we're built of stronger stuff."

The men headed their horses back to the village, Celt, rode across a large moat and into the castle which he called home. He was their leader. He was the Celtic Nation. He slid of the stallions' back and handed him to a stable boy.

Celt had a dark history and one that wasn't glamorous in any affect. He was rumored to have been raised by wild wolves after the Nordic tribe he had called family abandoned him upon finding his true identity. War had become his employment and his sword his greatest ally. The claymore that hung from his side was forged by a great, ancient hand that he had crossed in the southern part of his domain. The man was tall, with fair blonde hair and sharp, blue eyes. His bone structure was sharp as the blade itself and he towered over Celt, who was just a young nation. Germania. He had studied the boy, and spent time talking with him, only to leave as quickly as he had come, but had left him with the sword.

Men and women inside his castle greeted him warmly as he walked to his quarters. Once inside the privacy of his own room, he unwrapped himself from the furs and straightened his kilt from the ride, throwing the rest of the material over his shoulder. He was tall, broad, and muscular. Women fawned over the man who appeared youthful, yet was well into the five-hundreds. There was never a shortage of pleasures, or war, or drink. Life could be hard in their region, but for the most part, the Celtics lived simplistic lives. They were pagan, and nature was important to them.

That was about to change. As he walked to the door to meet his men for supper, a feeling of nausea swept over him. He clutched the door and a servant girl walking by ran up to him.

"My Lord, are you alright?" She rushed to his aid.

"Get my men…round them together," he could see and feel a village burning in the low-lands. "They've come…"

The girl did as she was told and Celt took a knee. He prayed to the Gods to keep his people safe and that's when he saw those eyes – a deep sea green. The leader of the invaders, perched on a white stallion, he had never seen before on the island.

"I see you…and I shall kill you," he growled. The soldier ordered his men to attack and Celt screamed no as he ran to the front of the castle and a new horse was presented to him.

"WE RIDE!" he howled and the group of warriors he called his own took off across the snow dusted terrain and towards the lowland villages which were being attacked. He felt the fire, it flicked his skin and caused wounds, but he forced it away. His people needed him.

They came upon smoke in the distance, and the echoes of screams.

"My the Gods have mercy, Celt, do we war?" Hamish and another young man, Stuart rode close to his flanks.

Celt's eyes narrowed in pure anger and rage, "We WAR!" The barbaric nature of the Celts took over and they charged. The innocent villagers ran towards them for sanctuary. That's when Celt saw them – he had also heard stories of these men – they were conquerors – they were Roman. The sleek craftsmanship of their armor, their weapons, even their horses screamed it too him. And his attention came to the white stallion, with the slender man atop. Their eyes met. Celts anger shuttered through him and he heeled his steed forward. The other man did not hesitate – but also rushed the stallion for him. Celt heard a horn from the west and the east – the neighboring tribes – they were coming.

Their blade clashed. Slightly surprised by the force behind the others' hand he shouldered the man roughly. His horse side-stepped away and reared, the confidence sure as the sword in the Roman's hand. Celt knew he had to bide time for the other tribes to get to them. He growled as the metal and steel clashed around him, yet he and this soldier seemed to be the only two on the Earth.

"Get off yer horse and fight like a man!" Celt swung his horse from side to side, trying to get a clean swipe.

"After you!" the soldier replied, unknowing of the impending tribes that outnumbered the small Roman army.

Celt obliged the man, surprised at his ability to speak in his tongue. Even more surprised as to the man, sounded no older than a boy.

"Now, we fight!" The Roman began the battle. Celt fought back with iron and force, while the boy seemed intent on his quick, lithe footwork and freakish ability to handle the blade.

"Are you new to battle!?" the question angered Celt. Did this child not know who he was dealing with?

"No," Celt heard the screaming of the other tribes closing in and a smile crossed his bloodstained face, "An' neither are they."

Those sea-green eyes widened as his own soldiers began to panic and run away.

"DO NOT RUN! YOU FIGHT!" He cried out. He continued to fight, even attacking Celt's men around him. Blood covered the shining armor as he walked towards Celt. Hamish stalked around the man and stabbed him in the side. The boy cried out and knelt to the ground. Celt watched, a smile flickering across his lips, then they twisted in horror as the boy withdrew the dagger that had slid through the chainmail and stabbed his friend in the chest.

"HAMISH!" Celt rushed the boy and shoved him off shaking his fallen friend. It was too late. He turned back to the boy still on his knees, the blood trickling from his side. A maniacal laugh flooding from the helmet.

"YOU are WEAK, Highlander," he sneered as the laughter continued. Celt kicked the boy in the chest, knocking him back, hearing him gasp for air.

"And you are a dead man," Celt lifted the blunt end of his sword and knocked the boy upside the head. There was nothing more said from the body. Celt looked around him, many of his own flesh and blood, dead. The Roman's were either dead or had retreated. The village could not be saved.

"Come, we bury our dead, and we shall honor them, we will rebuilt in the morning," he closed Hamish's eyes with a shaking hand. Turning back to the boy, for the first time, Celt realized how small he was. He was tall, but thin, light. He grabbed him and flung him over his horse.

"We'll get their plans from him, and then he shall die, by my sword." Celt declared as he swung up on his mount again. His men cheered and began aiding those who needed help back to the castle. It was a tiring journey, luckily, the boy didn't wake. Celt looked down once or twice, seeing pale skin where sea-green eyes had been. The gates swung open for him and he handed the soldier to two guards.

"Chain him, let him keep his armor on, so that he may die a soldiers' death, and I shall send him ta his God, dun't give him food nor drink, an' bring him ta me when I say," Celt went to his room and slammed the door. The echo of the wood slamming shook the castle. He ran a hand though brown hair, his fingers tightening in it. He had lost a friend, a good friend, an ally. That boy – that soldier – would pay with his life.

* * *

The men gathered in the great hall, Celt sitting on the stone throne and he raised his hand. The men who were shouting and drinking again, as if war were so normal for them, it affected them naught, silenced.

"Bring the soldier to me," Celt's voice boomed. The great hall doors swung open and the soldier was dragged in. He was awake, as he was struggling against the two guards who had him. He was thrown in front of Celt's feet and the man leaned down.

"Welcome ta the Highlands, Roman," Celt hissed.

"I am no Roman, you worthless peasant," the voice was sharper than before, those sea-green eyes alive and violent.

"Not a Roman…well, what are ya then," Celt grabbed the helmet and brought their faces together.

"Your worst nightmare," he retorted.

"I am sure, guards! Remove the bastards helmet…I want ta see his face, before he dies," Celt stood and drew his sword. He looked forward to slicing the boys head off.

The guards came forth and one held the soldier still, while the other ripped the helmet off. A hush fell over the crowd as long, honey-blonde hair fell in waves over the youths shoulders. Celt used the tip of his sword and raised the face of the soldier slowly.

"He's not a lad, but a lass!" One of the guards shouted in shock.

"Yer a lass?" Celt raised an eyebrow, not quite sure how to handle this. Killing a woman, now that was against his own morals, but she had ventured into the land of men by riding as a soldier and killing his friend.

"Not just any lass," she stood, defiant, and squared off against him, "I am a Britton."

"A Britton," the men in the hall began whispering amongst themselves. Celt raised a hand to silence them.

"A Britton you say," he grabbed the woman's chin roughly and raised her face to see clearer. Her power radiated around her and his own forest green eyes widened, "Yer, like me?" He had only met the one man, Germania, who had been like him. He had no knowledge that there could be, a woman, to meet his match.

"I am nothing like you," she snapped and slapped him across the face, "I am greater! Better! I shall rule this entire island, I shall have my empire!" she boasted.

"Woman," Celt growled and yanked her by her hair, he was enticed by her spunk, amused, but slapping him in front of his men, was uncalled for. Once again the world faded away, their faces inches apart, and he found himself being drawn into her eyes, into her resistance.

"What is your name?" he asked loosening slightly on her hair.

"Britannia," she sneered through her teeth. She had high cheek bones, a strong jawline, large, well set eyes, a straight nose, and a thick brow. Celt was stunned. What was a beauty of a Nation doing in the battlefields for Romans?

"Aye, Britannia," his thick accent caressed her name, "My name is Celt, and you have just found yerself, a captive. Chain her, she'll be strong, and whatever ya do, do not let her tempt you with her body," he swallowed hard as she pushed her away and back into the guards. "Do not let her touch a weapon and do not speak ta her, she's a crafty one," he looked back at her smug-smirk filled face, her eyes snapping with amusement.

"Are you afraid of a woman, Celt?" her voice was venom.

"I'm afraid of all women, cunning little shits," was his retort and her mouth fell open at his arrogance. She was dragged away by the soldiers, screaming and fighting the entire way. Celt heard her voice.

"You cannot treat me like this! I am Britannia! I will rule you all!"

It haunted him.


	2. I Vow to Thee, My Country

**2. I Vow To Thee, My Country **

Britannia was thrown back into a cell. Her armor had been stripped down to the white shirt and long pants that were her under garments. She had yelled and protested, as the guards were seldom easy with their hands, nor with where they strayed. The chains that dug into her pale, slender wrists made her wince at the fall backwards. The blood on her head had dried where the bastard had blunted her with his claymore. Her hair was tangled around her shoulders, her skin smeared with dirt, her face bruised and cut. She sat up with a groan from sore bones and glared at the guards jeering her.

"I'll kill all of you," her voice was bitter, and harsh. The men chuckled and she growled standing and slamming against the bars. They immediately fell back and glanced at each other, her power once again radiating.

"Easy lads, it's just a tiger lily," Celts voice was booming in the dungeon halls. "But the bitch could bite, so I'd stay back."

"You should be ashamed of yourself – Celt," she spoke his name sarcastically. "You know that this is no way for a lady to be treated of any stature," she glared at the man who had obviously cleaned himself up to shame her. Her sea-green eyes flickered over his bare chest and kilt carefully.

"Get on," he waved the men off and sat himself across from the cell, "Are ye done yet?"

"Tch…done…I thought you were going to kill me, come on Celt, end me." Her lips curled into a dangerous smile, "I killed that worthless bastard, your friend."

Celt snarled and grabbed her throat through the bars, "You killed a good man, wench."

"He died for a noble cause, aiding a man who can never die, but by with the hands of time," she spat back gasping for air under his iron grip. He let go of her with a push and she stumbled back a few steps coughing.

"Ye have nerve lassie," he growled at her. She was even thinner than he imagined. She met his interrogating stare and turned away.

"Don't gawk at me like a man who has never seen class before, oh, I'm sorry, your highland whores wouldn't know breeding if a Roman soldier mounted her like a mare at a stud."

"Woman! Ye will hold yer tongue about my people, do ya hear? I can keep ya here, starve ye. It's still cold, I could freeze ya too. I can make you weak to yer people and useless, and then ye'd fade away. How'd ye enjoy that, lovely?" His voice was unkind and cut her to the bone. It was loud and demanding. The wild look in his eyes made her nervous. He could do the things that Alexandria had told her about. He could beat her, man handle her, rape her, and she'd be unable to hold him off due to her binding. She had something within her, though, that only few knew. She had a deterrent for fear – she was numb to it and pain, and that, was the only good thing the demon within her was good for.

"Tch," was the only sound she made in return.

"Are ya dune yet?" His question came again.

"Done with what? My quest? Evading you, never," she turned from him fully and stared out the window and up at the moon.

"Fyne, ya can stay here and starve, freeze," he got up to walk back to his quarters. Celt had wished with some rough handling the woman would be willing to give. This was going to be harder than he thought. Before he left he threw into the cell the furs he was wearing. "Good-night, Britannia."

She didn't turn until she saw him leave. Once he was gone, she slid to the ground and did the best she could to get underneath the pelts. She cursed him under her breath as her teeth chattered together. She wasn't used to such treatment. She was used to her handmaids and warm chambers in the safety of her own castle in the South. Alexandria had warned her of the force of men, especially, Nations. She had only met the ancient a few times, when Roman Empire had brought the beautiful Grecian woman across the sea, but the woman was wise. Britannia had taken in as much as she could from the slender woman.

A wolf howled from a nearby loch and she shivered again. Each movement stirred the smells of whiskey, leather, and a spiced scent from the pelts. It soothed her. She nuzzled into the comforting furs and fell fast asleep.

* * *

The one horrid drawback, to secretly housing a force within oneself, was that that force, can withdraw and seem to hide at any time. Britannia woke up the next morning shivering, her throat dry and chest tight. Her cough echoed through the hallowed halls and the furs did little to keep her warm.

A tiny maid brought her food, but she waved it away. Her stomach turned. She huddled against the wall and ignored the guards who came to see her. She was sure she had a fever. A cold sweat broke out over her skin that next night, and her chills were worse than before. Her bones ached. She begged for her demon to help but he recoiled away from her.

The maid who kept trying to offer her food and drink made her way to Celt's private hall, where he held meeting with the tribe leaders. She found him pacing the floor muttering to himself, "My Lord," she bowed.

"Yes Orla?" His voice was curt.

"I hate to be a bother, or seem a burden, but the lass," the middle aged woman played with her skirts.

"What about that cur?" He growled.

"I beggin' yer pardon, but, she's taken ill…and quite badly," Orla kept her head down. Celt stopped his pacing and turned to the woman.

"She's taken sick?"

"She refused to eat or drink, she has a terrible cough, and fever, I'm afraid she won't last long under the conditions in that cell," Orla took a step forward.

"She refused food and drink it's her own damn fault."

"It's strange sir, she's changed. She's kindly and sweet, but refuses, she smiles and chats with me some, show some mercy."

"She showed no compassion to me and my men," Celt felt something tighten in his chest. The nation was ill? It was rare that a Nation become ill.

"I beg ye, my Nation, if she's as ye are, think of her people, who are of a similar line as yers," Orla left the truth hanging in the tense air between them.

"I shall go see her, and determine her state fer myself," he hesitated for only a moment before long strides ate the ground and Orla was trotting to keep up. He could hear her cough reverberate off the walls and hurried.

She was huddled, and Orla had brought her more furs and linens, but she was still shaking visibly. He opened the cell quickly and knelt beside her. He could hear her breathing. It was raspy, dry. A guilt settled in his heart and his conscious. He still could not forgive her for killing Hamish, but leaving her, a fellow Nation, one that resided on the same island, one so much like him, was wrong.

"Easy, lassie," he ran a warm hand through her hair. She didn't try to pull away. Her lips were chapped, and eyes dark. She had lost weight at a fast rate, her human body giving in. She coughed again and a small whimper escaped as tears slid silently from her eyes. That was enough.

Celt scooped her up and shivered, as she was an icicle against his bare skin. She couldn't cling to him, but she leaned as close as she could for warmth. She was as close to death as he'd ever seen. He hurried to a separate chamber, served for guests, and called for several maids.

"Look after the lass, bathe her in warm water, clean her, warm her, feed her, make her drink," he ordered. Her face was drawn and pale. He was ushered out of the room by the hand maids and he ran a hand through his hair. A panic rushed through him. How could she be so fine and strong and then weak the next?

He waited until a young woman came out of the room and he stopped her.

"How is she? Is she better?"

"She's a sleepin' peacefully, my Lord," the girl nodded too him.

"Can, can I see her?" It seemed like ages and it had been a few hours.

"Only stay fer a few moments, the lady needs her rest," the girl led him back to the room. Four pairs of eyes stared at him as the girl rounded them up and they left the room. Celt stood there, unsure of what to do.

Walking quietly up to her bedside, he pulled a chair over and sat. She was resting more at ease than before. Her honey hair rested over her shoulders, it seemed even longer than before. Her face was clean, minus a cut across a high cheekbone and a bruise on her forehead. Her skin was pale but creamy in complexion and a slight flush from fever was in her cheeks. Her brow was high set and thick, but not in an unattractive way. Her lips that were chapped before had been cleaned and oiled and he could see how full they were.

He sighed. Of all the lasses in the Highlands, he had never come across such beauty. She couldn't have been as old as he either. One-hundred and fifty or two-hundred at best, a young thing. She had spirit, and he could admire that, and a skilled fighter. She didn't wake as he watched her sleep. He could see the thrumming of her heartbeat from the vein in her slender neck. For reasons unknown to him, he wanted to see those sea-green eyes swallow him into their depths.

"Get well, Britannia," he whispered after an hour of staring. He got up and left, shutting the door quietly.

Her eyes flashed open and she stared at the door. What had caused his change of heart? Was it her weakness? Was it because she was a woman? It annoyed her. But she was grateful to it, whatever the cause.

* * *

Light streaming through the window woke her from a dreamless slumber. She stirred and squinted as a maid pulled back the curtains to let the warm light into the room. She sat up in bed and looked around. The chamber was a grand one, as grand as any she had back home. The maid, Orla, was her name, came with a cheerful smile over to her.

"Mornin' lass, how do ye feel?"

"Better, thank you," Britannia offered the woman a small smile.

"Are ye hungry love?"

"I am, actually," she smiled wider. The thought of food, sounded wonderful right now. How many days had it been?

"I shall call for it at once." Orla turned and left silently, leaving the young woman's curious streak to take over. She climbed out of bed and found herself in a simple, white, slimming night gown. She padded around the quarters to investigate the room, and smaller closets and bath room. The door opened again and she jumped. It was Orla carrying a tray.

"Oh, my Lady, ye mustn't be out of bed yet, please dear, sit down." Britannia smiled at the woman's nerves and she placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"It's alright, Orla, I'm not going to break," but she did as she was told.

"The Lord would have me head if he knew ye were about. Fer a man who takes a woman ta bed as easily as he takes his drinks, ye hafta ask why make such a stink o'r a Nation like yerself. Oh, that's ta no offense," Orla bowed her head, "I jus' know ye can take care of yerself."

"I understand, thank you," Britannia poured the tea into the cup and savored it as she took the first sip.

"Does it suit ya?"

"Very much so."

"I shall leave ya too it," Orla stood again, smiling.

"Thank you, fer everything," Britannia laid a hand over the woman's.

"Dun't thank me, its tha't brute of a man who brought ye up from that cell," she winked and exited again. It gave Britannia a chance to think. He must have pitied her. She finished her meal and found a few garments in the closets. She let her fingers run over the fine silk of a light blue gown and smiled. She drew herself a bath and let the warm water ease her still aching bones.

After drying enough so she wouldn't wet the fabric, she slid the light blue fabric over a silken slip. Orla came back into the room and hurried over to the girl, attempting to tie the back laces.

"Ay, lassie, why are ye out of bed? Celt'll have me head if ya get ill again?"

"And what would Celt care? Should I live, I am a threat, should I pass, I would be no more, simple as that." Britannia raised her chin proudly as the lady tightened the dress up.

"Ay love, but that seems a wee bit lonely, dun'tcha think? An' Celt's not all bad blood an' bone. He's lonely too."

"As a brute of a man such as him should be," she retorted.

"Ye two aren't as different as ye'd like ta think, my Lady," Orla turned the honey-blonde to straighten out a few wrinkles.

"I was raised to be a champion, of war and of the people, and I shall see it done."

"Ay, an' lose many men along the way," Orla handed her a pair of shoes for her feet and Britannia slid them on.

"Perhaps, but that is the art of war in itself," she looked at the middle aged woman.

"Ye two are both too proud," she waved the young woman off and started for the door. Britannia caught a glimpse of herself in the large mirror and gasped. Her hair was nearly dry, and if it wasn't combed precisely, it was as wild as the deepest forest. Rummaging through a few drawers, she found one and began combing there the long, wavy locks. Orla watched her with a kindly smile.

"When yer ready, I shall take ye down to where he wants to speak with ye."

Britannia hesitated in her strokes, "Speak to me? Of what accord?"

"I do not know lassie, I jus' listen," Orla took out a small box from her apron and walked over to where Britannia sat.

"What is it?"

"Rouge for yer cheeks and lips. Ye've got a fair complexion, might as well show the lad up?" Orla winked again and Britannia smiled at the crafty woman.

"Woo him with my charms and good looks? Are you helping me win a war, Orla?"

"Nay…makin' an ally."

"An, ally," the word was foreign to her tongue. She had only said things such as, 'enemies' or conquest. That is what she had been taught.

"Ay, a friend in a time of need," Orla nodded gravely.

"I have never, considered the use for an ally," Britannia mused.

"Chew it over in yer mind, perhaps one day, ye'll need one in Celt, and he in you."

Britannia looked back at her reflection in the glass, thinking on the woman's words. She would be in need of an ally?

* * *

Celt was pacing in the meeting hall as Orla brought the lady down to him. He was wearing his clan's tartan, at least, the one he had grown up with. He was practicing trying to be civil, but he was sure the girl would have a quick tongue with him. He needed her to keep the Roman's away. He needed them naught. And thanks to one of his outriders, rumors of a foreign ship stalking her shores on the south-eastern boarder were milling, and it was not Roman.

The door creaked open and Orla bowed her head, "My Lord, Britannia is well enough ta see ye."

"Of course she is, send her in, thank ya Orla," Celt nodded and crossed his arms. He saw blue first, as clear as the spring skies, and the honey-gold hair reminded him of the summer sun. Her eyes met his as she looked up and he saw the sea. He was silent, standing still and dumbfounded as he took her in. Damn her. Damn this woman, this Nation.

"I beg your pardon, but it not be polite to stare, Celt. At least, not where I am from," she crossed her hands over themselves and her voice was a blunt, matter-of-fact tone. Her serious expression intrigued him, what would it take to make her laugh?

"My apologies, Britannia, I wasn't expectin' ta see ye, clean up this well," Celt smirked and walked a few steps closer.

"Well, I could imagine," She set her jaw and raised her chin, "I am one of class, compared to these, Pagans."

"Ay, there'll be none o' that in here," his forest green eyes grew dark and it brought about a sinister, smirk on her full lips.

"Of course, my captor should feel no ill will by my mark at all," she tilted her head with confidence, pride. Damn this woman.

"I shall keep ya here as long as I see fit," he pointed in her face.

"And you shall have Roman's breathing down your neck, looking for me," she stepped up too him, only a few hairs shorter than him, but enough to keep her looking up.

"Ay, Romans, but what of yer people, the Britons? Would they fersake ye?" He raised an eyebrow.

"They will come as well," her voice deepened in a warning.

"We shall see," Celt studied her while he had a chance up close, she smelled of the sea, and of rain on a spring day.

Britannia had never been in the presence of another male nation, but Rome, and Alexandria, and another, strange country, Germania she had met when she was just a girl. But Celt, something inside of her rebelled, and the demon forced her to look within him, to see deeper than just a prideful nation, but a man. She forced the demon to the back of her thoughts and he growled in anger – why would he approve this? Her deepest sin, want her to see this man?

"Why have you brought me down here? Did you in your barbaric nature wish to attempt civility with me?" She stepped around him and ran her hand along the deep wooden finish of the tale.

"I had wish ta speak with ye on such matters, yes," Celt turned and watched her. She had a grace, raw, but refined. He swallowed, what was this?

"Of what nature?" She continued to walk around the table and lifted her eyes to watch him. It was a critical, cruel stare. As if she was cutting through his soul.

"We are of essentially, the same line, with our exceptions, ye with Romans, I with the Nordics, but both of us…know Germania. We should, since we're on the same island, an' part of the same people, to a degree, come ta an agreement."

"What sort of agreement? Are you afraid of the Roman's?" She smirked. He gritted his teeth.

"It's what they'll do ta my people, is what I'm worried about. An' what of ye? I hear ya have yerself a ship that stalks yer shores, who is that? An' of what orgin?"

Britannia stopped walking and her and the demon both snarled, "THAT, is none of your business, and none of your concern."

"Oh, is that fear I sense? Are ye, afraid, Britannia?" Celt leaned over the table with a grin.

"No, its disgust and distaste," she scoffed.

"It's fear," Celt argued.

"Silence on it," her voice was firm. He locked eyes with her again, but hers gave it all away. It was fear. He tilted his head. She stiffened as if she knew she'd been found out and continued walking.

"What do you want from me Celt? Be a man and say it?"

"I want ya ta keep the Roman's out of my lands."

"That cannot be done," she shook her head.

"YES it can and it will!" He strode up to her taking her roughly by the arms.

"Unhand me!"

"You WILL see too it that the Roman's do not, come here!" His eyes were wild.

"And how? There is no boarder between out worlds! I was born to rule!"

"Build a dammed wall! Fer yer Christ's sake, jus' leave me and my people alone!" He shook her and her eyes became wide. He lessened his grip, but didn't let go, "I dun't want ta be ruled any more than ya do, respect that." He let go and walked away from her again. She thought on her words. He had a quick temper, but a realization of it, at least.

"I demand, something of you, in return for that wall," she began slowly. Celt halted rubbing his eyes and looked over at her.

"Tell me, I'll do anythin', but be ruled."

She played with her hands turning away from him, swallowing hard, "You must come to my aide, whenever I demand it. Those ships you speak of, they do not settle well with me."

Celt walked up behind her, "So ye know what they contain?"

She nodded quickly; she did fear what was inside, that man, and what he wanted from her…

"It frightens a force like yerself? What is it lassie?" He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened at such a touch. She had never known this kind. His hands were large, warm; she could smell his scent of whiskey, leather, and that faint spice.

"It's not that he frightens me, it's what he demands from me. He threatens that one day my lands will be ruled by his blood, and that there will forever be a curse between our people, a hatred, and wars." She turned, "He wants me to fall into the custom of marrying him, as humans would. I fear, should that happen, he'd abuse my people, and take my power, my…" she stopped, no one knew of her curse, of her demon, of her secret.

Celt lifted her face gently, "Who is threatening you? Why would he?"

"He's dying…losing power, he already has a child to take his place, a new Nation." She cursed herself for being weak in his hands, but he was warm, and gentle, she'd never felt this from the hand of a man, only a sword.

"Who, Britannia? An' I shall agree ta aide ye, whenever ya call on me," he let a hand run through her hair. He knew he was asking for a hit, but he'd take whatever he could get with this beauty.

"Normandy," she whispered.

Celt's hair stood up at the back of his neck – that bastard. "He won't touch a hair on yer head if it's up ta me."

"What – have ye met him?" She was confused.

"Tch, who hasn't? The man is a power starved beggar. I've seen his ways, an' I know he's been on his last limbs."

"So you'll help me?"

"Build yer wall…and I vow ta keep our island free of the likes of him, and ta keep ya from an eternity of sorrow."

"Why would you give me that, when I already have caused so much?" She was confused. How could he be this, giving, she still wanted to conquer, conquer him now more than ever.

"Ye'll fix it, I dunno how, but," he tapped the end of her nose with his finger, "Ye'll think of somethin' lassie."

****Note!  
Historically innaccurate as all hell, BUT, the "wall" is Hadrian's Wall.**

**Also Normandy is the predecessor of France - LE GASP! ****


	3. Dark Waters

**3. Dark Waters**

The moment they shared was short lived, as two men of high ranking within the Celtic tribes came bursting in.

"CELT! Is that the bitch that killed my son?" The elder of the two men drew his claymore. Britannia felt her demon surge with blood-lust and she turned to the source of the noise. Celt moved her aside and stood between the two.

"Campbell, hold your sword. McIntosh, what is this?"

"I will never put my sword down! My son is dead! And that wench, that whore, did it!" He raised it above his head in sheer madness.

Celt drew his own and met the man, "I said put it away!"

"Celt, you shelter that Roman cur and you betray yer own," he growled. Britannia snapped out of the demon's hold and placed a hand on Celts sword.

"The man is right," she knelt before the man named, Campbell, and bowed her head, "Forgive me, and my sin, should you find it in your heart, I am sorry, for taking your son. It was in the heat of battle, and I was merely defending myself."

"You – " Campbell dropped his sword to his side and growled again, "I shall not stay in the presence of this groveling cunt," he turned to leave, but the rage within her was too great. She jumped up and grabbed him around the neck squeezing.

"Is that anyway to speak to a lady?" She howled with laughter and listened to him choke.

"BRITANNIA!" Celt ripped her off and threw her against the wall. "What the hell? Are ye from heaven or from hell? I dun't know either, but my stars woman," Celt glared at her as she stood. The beast within her was on fire.

"I am from neither," her eyes locked and he could see a change, they were dark, deep, and ancient, with a thirst for blood.

"McIntosh, take Campbell away, I need ta deal with whatever she's hiding," Celt swung his sword and regained his composure. Something about this form of her was unsettling.

"Try me, Celt, see how far you will get," she sneered. She was changed. She moved with a raw, power, still graceful, but sheer force. Was this her true nature? Britannia was screaming within her mind. She couldn't stop him, not until someone stopped him. She didn't want this, she never wanted this, she wanted protection, and she didn't want to go back to the cell!

"Whate'r ye are, yer not her, I can sense that," Celt saw the darkness, and knew the young nation was but a victim to this darker force. They circled each other like wild cats before the pounce. She picked up the fallen sword Campbell had dropped.

"This shall be, fun," she giggled and ever the voice that came from within her seemed, possessed.

"Stop this now," he commanded, licking his lips, unsure on how to take this.

"But I've yet to begin!" She lunged at him and steel met steel. She fought with a power he had never encountered. This couldn't be from her. He couldn't believe what he was seeing; her sea-green eyes had become like emeralds, her face twisted in a snarl, her voice, so rough and vile. He backed up and she offered him a kick to the knee, followed with a brute hit to his shoulder with the blade. He growled and watched her. He had never met a match like her.

"Britannia, stop this madness," his voice was more of a plea.

"That is my name, Celt, learn it well…learn to fear it," she struck again, knocking him back. "I shall rule your lands in your stead! I shall build my empire as far as the seas dare take me!" She lifted the sword to bring it down on him.

_NOOOOOOOO!_ She screamed within herself and it was enough – for once, it was enough. She dropped the sword and dropped to her knees, sobbing. Her dress was torn and a light sweat shone on her skin. Her breathing was raged and her nose had started to bleed.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, forgive me…I'm so sorry," she covered her face in shame. It had been a long while since her demon had taken control. It frightened her, she hated being out of control.

Celt shook some; he had never seen such a crazed look, nor had he ever felt that amount of power. He moved over to her and lifted her chin, ripping a piece of his tartan and holding it too her nose. She looked terrified, pale, shaken.

"What was that?" He asked in a low voice.

"I…" he screamed in her head not to tell and she winced. "I'm sorry," she felt so weak. She was a strong and proud nation, and yet, this terrified her. _He_ terrified her.

"Shh, it's, well I can't say its alright, ya nearly speared me, but," he picked her up and carried her back to her quarters. Orla was speaking with some of the women at the end of the corridor when she saw them.

"Oh me Lord! What happened ta the girl?"

"Get some water and clothes, she's not herself, is all," Celt entered the room and laid her back on the bed. He sat next to her after shutting the door.

"Now, ye need ta explain yerself. What was that display?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I…I can't…" she whispered. Her eyes were back to the sea-green, not the emerald daggers.

"Ye will, I can't trust ye, ye've gone after too many of my men, and me," he took a hand, "Now, I'll keep ya locked in this room until ya tell me…"

"My men will come for you."

"Let them come," he shrugged.

"At least let me write to them! Make an excuse! To save you more grief," she gave him an exasperated look.

"I will allow that," he stood, "Orla will be here soon, but til ya want ta tell me, lass, yer ta stay here."

She watched him walk out of the room and burst into a fresh set of tears. She gripped a pillow and cried, she was so far from home. Celt had seen her at her weakest point. That's when he gripped her.

_What's the matter, my Rose, tell me love, all that you loath me for? I merely mean to give you power, my dear_.

"Leave me alone, I don't want you," she sniffed.

_That's too bad, lovely. I don't want to be connected to you much either, but we really didn't have a choice in the matter, did we?_

"No," she said bitterly.

_You be a good Nation, and house me, and keep me satisfied, and I shall give you all the power in the world._

"You let me rot away in a cell, as weak as a human."

_Now, I didn't say I wanted to help you…only for things of my gain_.

"Will you ever leave me? Free me?"

_One day, but not anytime soon. There is no one pure enough for me to taint…but there will be._

"Who? Let me find him now!"

_Let's not be hasty, good things shall come to us in time._

"Tch…you, not I."

_That's not fair, Rose, how dare you bite the hand that keeps you strong_.

"All that you are is the end of a nightmare."

_The end? Or the beginning?_ His laughter faded away in her head as Orla opened the door.

"Lassie, just what have ye gone an done now?" She gave a wan smile.

"Orla…" the young woman looked up at the older and burst into tears.

"Oh love, what is it?" Orla comforted her.

"I hate who I am…"

"Oh, dun't say that, now what is it?"

"You promise…never to say a word to anyone?" Britannia gripped the older woman. She couldn't keep it in, so she told. Orla's eyes widened in fear at first, upon hearing the truth, but then she comforted the young woman.

Britannia told her everything. That he was there from the start. How he tortured her thoughts and plagued her dreams. How he helped her rise to power, and yet would leave her on her own to suffer. How he only wanted to expand, conquer, as did she but, he was ruthless, bloodthirsty. How he had no humanity. How he was a monster.

"Now, there lassie," Orla stroked her hair. "Ye'll be needin' ta tell Celt this."

"NO! I can't, if I do, there is no telling what he will do," Britannia's eyes showed her fear.

"Alright, alright, then we won't tell him, but do ye really want ta stay here?" She motioned around the room.

"I will, it's for his own well-being," Britannia looked down at her hands.

"Well, come on, let's draw ye a bath, then, and getcha out of these clothes," Orla stood all business again.

"You won't tell, will you?"

"About what? I know nothin'," she smirked and Britannia stood to hug the woman.

"Thank you."

* * *

Celt waited, and waited, and waited. She never came down. It was four days. He slammed a fist against the wall. The Roman's had received her letter, but the general had eyed Celt suspiciously. She had been eating, and from what he had heard, just been sitting in the window seat gazing into the courtyard, soaking in the sun.

He couldn't wait anymore. With a growl he stormed up the steps and stood outside her door. Taking a deep breath, he pounded against the thick wood.

"Woman, we need ta talk," he waited.

"It's unlocked," her voice was soft from within.

He entered and shut the door, about to let her have it, but he saw her staring out the window, and he felt ashamed. She had this look of longing on her face, and the way the sun kissed her honey-golden hair…she turned to him.

"I…how are ye?" He stumbled with his words. She smiled slowly.

"Being, obedient," she motioned to the room, "Now what brings you to my glorified dungeon?"

"I came ta see if ye'd changed your mind," he stepped closer, his fingers twitching.

"No." Her smile turned sly again, "I have a better idea, we spoke of the wall. Why don't you make your men build it, and I shall have mine, abide by it? Since I cannot order them from here," she stood and walked over to him. He stiffened. He didn't trust her from the other night.

"Right, you don't like me," she looked frustrated for a moment, "You're afraid?" Britannia was wearing light green dress that skimmed the floor. It was scooped in the neck, showing her pale shoulders and neck. Half of her hair was tied in a braid around her head, while the rest of her hair fell down her back. Celt cursed her silently.

"I am not," he retorted staring down at her.

"Fool," she turned and walked back to the window.

"Ya miss it out there?"

"Of course I do, what do you take me for? I conquer lands, I travel, I'm used to the company of my soldiers, and when I am at home, my court. Of course I miss my freedom," she spoke curtly, to the point, but he could hear the wistfulness in her strong voice.

"Come with me," he motioned to the door.

"I thought I was to stay here until I broke," she raised a brow.

"So did I," he offered a small smile and walked towards the door. A bit confused, she followed him. Celt led her through the castle. She found herself walking closer to him as she passed his men. They glared at her. Obviously, they did not agree with the two being seen together. She couldn't blame them.

They passed through a tunnel and then she blinked; the sun? She felt something be draped around her shoulders. She looked up and saw Celt fixing a warm cloak around her. "Can't go ridin' in just that dress. Jus' cause its spring dun't mean its warm."

"Riding?" She questioned him with a puzzled look. Two stable boys lead out Celt's large, black stallion, along with a more refined, chestnut mare.

"Riding," he repeated with a smile, swinging up onto the horse. She was given a leg by the stable boy and settled over the mare easily.

"She's lovely," Britannia murmured, running a hand down the mare's neck.

"She's a trophy of war, but none of my men can ride her, I dun't think she like us. Prefers a light hand," he winked.

"That or she doesn't enjoy barbarians," she quipped back taking up the reins.

"Shall we ride or quibble?" Celt teased.

"You confuse me," she narrowed those sea-green eyes at him.

"I rather enjoy keepin' a woman of yer stature, on her toes," and with that, he urged his mount into a trot. She followed him out of the gates and across bridge. She could gallop away, her mare was swift. She could out-wit him. No, this must be a test. Give her a choice to run away, and see if her words of an alliance could be trusted. Sighing, she pushed away the urges to run and settled into a light canter to keep up with Celt's stallion.

He rode through a deep thicket, along a loch and up a ridge. Britannia didn't know where they were going, but she was glad for his mercy of letting her ride some. At least he was allowing her to be out of that room.

"Look," he motioned out over the vast peaks and valleys. She did and inhaled. The land before her was one attempting to burst forth into spring. The heather and flowers were attempting to poke through the cold ground, and the wind promised warmer days. She found herself longing for home.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, turning towards Celt, "It reminds me of my home."

"Aye," he nodded and looked out again, "So about yer wall…"

"I will not build your wall," she scoffed, "You want to keep my men out, you build it, and I will have my men abide by the truce set."

"Fyne, woman, ye drive a hard bargain," he grumbled. She was about to reply when she saw two riders far below them. She recognized their armor. She turned her horse with haste.

"Celt, we have to go."

"And what fer?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Out riders, Roman soldiers, they've come this far, their looking for me." Britannia heeled her horse next to Celt's.

"So, let them come," Celt's voice was rough and his eyes harsh.

"No! I will not have that," she glanced over her shoulder, the wind freeing her hair, "If you do not wish for a war, listen to me, you stubborn brute!"

"Why don't ya jus' run off with them now? Ye could."

"If you see your end of the bargain through, then I shall see mine." Her sea-green eyes were fierce, but there was a fear in them; a fear for him and his people. His brows furrowed in confusion.

"Alright, I'll build the wall, an' well speak of terms. Let's go," he urged his stallion into a gallop and Britannia followed suit. She glanced over her shoulder, she didn't see the men, but she could feel their eyes.

Celt couldn't help but glance out of the corner of his eye at the woman riding alongside him. She had a solid seat, and light hands on the reins, a true horseman. The determined look on her face fit her best, he decided.

* * *

Britannia was pacing the floor of the great hall anxiously awaiting the arrival of her generals. She and Celt had come to an agreement on the wall, and their duties to each other. She was still technically a captive of the Celtic Nation, and yet here she was, willing to aide him.

"Easy lassie," Orla said gently. She was in the hall with the nation to help in whatever way she could. Celt's orders, as he was busy calming his own men to face hers. Neither wanted a battle.

"I'm fine," she lied, smoothing her skirt. Britannia was wearing a deep, emerald green satin dress with a gold cord that wrapped around her slender waist and fell down the front of the skirt. Her hair was pulled back away from her face and hung low down her back. She turned towards the door when she heard heavy footsteps. Squaring her shoulders, she waited.

The large wooden doors burst open and three men entered, followed by many other guards. Britannia lifted her chin proudly. Captive or not, they need not know.

"My Nation," the shortest of the three men, with black hair took her hand and knelt before her. He was the chosen leader of the Briton's, hand-picked by Britannia herself. She smiled at the young man's genuine relief.

"It is good to see you again, Arthur," she squeezed his hand gently, and he smiled as he looked up. His brilliant blue eyes shone up at her. She felt the demon cringe within her. It was an oddity she had found early in her life; he did not like people with blue eyes. She found it odd, but never thought much of it. Arthur had been an orphan and she had taken him in. He was the closest to having a child as she would ever get.

"My Lady, your people call you home," he stood and tried his best to contain the child-like excitement of seeing her again. She chuckled softly and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes, I know."

"Britannia, you are needed back at court," The taller, blonde man with cold grey eyes stepped forward, nodding, not bowing. They were Roman generals.

"I am aware of this, Augustus," her voice grew colder; "I called you all here to look over a truce. Gentlemen," Britannia turned her attention to the table where a treaty and maps lay. It was the guidelines for the wall.

Augustus and Alexander leaned over and began reading. Arthur waited next to Britannia anxiously. She jumped when Augustus slammed his fist on the table.

"Are you under their Pagan spells?" he gripped the map of the wall and shook it in her face, "Do you forget who you were hand chosen by? Who raised you? Would Rome or Alexandria be happy?" He strode towards her, but Arthur stood between them.

"You will not throw away the honor of the court to a Pagan, barbarian," Augustus chided.

"And I shall not throw away a brother to my court," her voice was dangerous.

"My Nation is that of the Briton's, not of Rome, or Ancient Greece…" his tone was proud and strong. She had to wonder when he became a man.

"Your Nation," Alexander glared at the woman, "Your Nation who has probably made her bed with this Pagan, or with you, a human. Is that why you protect her so valiantly, Knight?"

Arthur had reached for his sword at the insult, but Celt and the leaders of the tribes barged in. He gripped the Roman's armor so tightly, the metal bent.

"Ye'll not be beddin' me with that, an' have some respect. A lady, is a lady, an' ye shouldna be wonderin' who's been in her bed. A lass like that," Celt glanced up at her, "Is a pure as gold."

Britannia's panicked expression softened at his words. Arthur glared at the new Nation before him. Augustus laughed.

"You must be Celt," it came out as a snarl.

"Ay…ye must be a Roman," Celt shoved him away. He was wearing a kilt, and a faded, white linen shirt that tied partway down his chest. He glared at the two blondes and then his eyes settled on Arthur.

"An' who are ye?"

"I am Arthur, leader of the Briton's, in my Nation's place," the young man didn't hesitate to hold out his hand. Celt eyed him and then me. I nodded and he took the boys hand.

"Celt…"

"So you are saying, that we should be working with this, Nation," Alexander pulled Augustus off.

"Yes, I will it, so it shall be so, please," Britannia motioned back to the table. "We need to discuss the details of the wall."

"Before we do, Britannia, we brought you a visitor," Augustus' eyes shone with malice. The twisted grin that spread over his lips, unsteadied her. She blinked and looked to Arthur.

"Who?"

"My lady, I tried to keep them from bringing him here," his voice was apologetic.

"Why, moi of course, my Rose," a haunting voice sent a chill down her spine. She turned to see the fading power of a Nation before her.

"Normandy…" she swallowed.

"Rome said, that I should see you," his bleached, blonde hair had seen its days. His skin was a pallid color, and his cold blue eyes held only one want from her. He leaned against his cane with a sinister smile.

"Rome, Rome would never send you to me," Britannia glared at the two men in Roman armor that looked smug.

"I heard there was rumors, of an alliance, not to me, now, Rose," Normandy stepped up to her and caressed her face, "How dare you."

"Unhand, me," she trembled. This was one alliance Rome had always hinted about, but he respected Britannia enough to let her make her own choices. Was he changing his mind? She was her own Nation; she could ally with whomever she wished.

"I also came to deliver a message," Normandy's eyes slowly drifted to Celt's, "Rome has declared a war on Germania. He will soon fall."

"What!" Celt's voice roared through the great hall and echoed.

"Normandy, stop this," she was pulled against the other Nation and a dagger brought to her throat.

"I can force you, Rose," he nuzzled against her neck, his fingers splayed on her waist, "She has killed many of your men, Celt, you do not want what this woman has to offer. Nothing more than a devil."

"Let me go," Britannia had shrunk away, allowing her to be handled this way. She cursed him and his playing with her. Even though Normandy would be a ghost in the next hundred years, he was still strong.

"Ye'll let her be," Celt put a hand on Arthur's sword. The two Roman soldiers looked worried. Answering to Rome on the death of Britannia? It would be their heads.

Orla shook in the corner, far away as she could go, her face in horror.

"We are all barbaric ones aren't we," she said slowly. She turned in cold arms to see Normandy face to face, "Je ne pourrai jamais être le vôtre à tenir, pourquoi n'essayez-vous?"

"Vous serez à moi, que ce soit ce soit à travers votre corps ou vos fils. Je vais vous avoir." He whispered back.

"Mon fils ...?" She was taken aback, searching his face.

"Oui," a dark smile broke out as he let her go and she felt strong arms around her. She didn't have to look. She could detect that comforting scent anywhere now.

"I'll not be havin' any of yer lip, get out, yer not in this," Celt growled protectively. He could speak in tongues. He knew what that bastard wanted now. He knew what he had told her…her sons?

"I will leave, merci to Augustus, and Alexander, and to Arthur," his head cocked slightly at the mention of the name. "Such a fine young man, loyal to his Nation and people. You will make a great leader someday, and you shall endure, an even greater fall."

"Leave," Celt barked.

"Maybe not in this lifetime…" Normandy waved a hand as he turned, limping out of the room and back to the ship.

"You two, ye'll abide by my rules, but fer that display, Rome will be hearin' my voice."

The two soldiers looked between each other, "Shall we continue the talks?" Alexander offered.

"I think that's in yer best interest, dun'tcha think?" Celt felt her trembling. He looked down to her, but her gaze was locked on the boy in front of them. He turned to her; as if he were a child and Celt had to look twice.

"What did he mean?" His voice was small. Britannia offered a small smile.

"I do not know, Arthur." Her heart knew. Normandy's projection of what would happen to her, could she trust it? Her demon was there twisting around the possibilities of finding a match suitable for him to use. She tried to push it away, but it plagued her mind. Her…sons?

* * *

**Je ne pourrai jamais être le vôtre à tenir, pourquoi n'essayez-vous - I can never be yours to keep, why do not you try?**

**Vous serez à moi, que ce soit ce soit à travers votre corps ou vos fils. Je vais vous avoir. - You will be mine, whether it be through your body or your son. I'll have you.**

**Mon fils - My sons?**


End file.
